Page 337 of Mad Girl

It cracked me, too, but I couldn’t stop, tugging the cardigan around my shoulders, hands shaking as I tried slipping my arms into the sleeves.

You lifted up, helping, guiding my arms through your sweater, slow and careful, as if one wrong move might shatter me completely.

“Don’t do this,” you begged. “Don’t shut down over three little words.”

I hugged your sweater to my body, curling into it, needing to hold myself together. Fat tears dripped from my chin, soaking into the thick fabric.

That’s when I saw it.

The blood.

A thin smear of red staining the inside of my thigh: proof of what I’d done. Proof I’d given you something sacred. Something that would always belong to you—and you alone. It should’ve felt meaningful. But all I could think was: This is how it’ll end, too. When he finds out the truth and stops loving you.

I wanted to take it back. Not the moment, Casey—never that. Just the lie that came with it. Just the part where you loved a version of me that didn’t really exist.

Choking on a sob, I tried scrubbing it off my skin. Why did I ever think I could have this without consequences?

“Here, let me do that.” You easily swiped the blood away with your thumb, your tattooed hand shaking against my leg. “Hey.” You were trying to catch my gaze—trying to hold me there, to tug me back—but I wouldn’t look at you. “Elliot.”

I forced myself to speak. “I need to be alone right now.”

A pause. “No.”

My stomach twisted. “Leave.”

“Don’t do this.” You swept the hair from my face, your voice shaking, too, like you were barely holding it together. “Please…just talk to me.”

“I want to be left alone.” I sounded cold, hard, detached. And I hated myself for it.

The silence stretched between us, thick and unbearable. Then the bed shifted, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as you pulled on your clothes. Somehow, that felt even worse. Too cruel. Too final.

As you walked to the door, I almost caved. Almost stopped you. Almost begged you to come back.

You hesitated in the doorway, likely hoping for the same thing. But I stared at the bed, silent.

The door clicked shut. I pulled your cardigan tighter around me. And when I was sure you were gone, I broke.

The next morning, I woke to a dull ache between my legs, my body remembering you instantly, seconds before my mind did. The sting. The fullness. The scrape of your lips. Perfect. I love you.

Instead of feeling different or changed—instead of savoring that dull reminder of our night together—I only felt hollowed out.

Eventually, thirst propelled me downstairs to refill my water bottle.

And you were there—as I feared you would be—unshaven and unkempt, like you’d barely slept, scrubbing a mug by hand. Your body tensed as I passed the island on my way to the fridge. You set the mug aside to brace your hands on the sink.

My stomach rumbled when I opened the door, so I grabbed a yogurt—one loaded with protein. A new purchase by you, made especially for me.

I sat down at the island with it, heart pounding in my throat. “So, listen,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry about last night⁠—”

“You’re sorry?” It had come out strained, stripped bare, angry. “You think that’s what I need from you right now? A sorry?”

I stared at the countertop.

“How about an explanation?” you said. “Let’s start there.”

But there was no way to begin without telling you everything. I nearly choked on the lies while peeling the top off my yogurt.

“You were fine, and then suddenly you weren’t. Why? Because I love you?”